


The Drive to Musquash Mesa

by Sheila_Snow



Category: EDS "Cat Herders" (Commercial)
Genre: Cats being awesome, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Humor, POV First Person, Wild West, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 05:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13024188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheila_Snow/pseuds/Sheila_Snow
Summary: A few days in the life of a cat herder.





	The Drive to Musquash Mesa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BardicRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardicRaven/gifts).



> Don't know the canon? Just takes a minute to learn it, lol! The EDS "Cat Herders" commercial is [right here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_MaJDK3VNE)

Maybe you seen a few strays as we passed by your town. Maybe you seen the dust kicked up by thousands of paws, or maybe you heard the big toms on the prod,1 sizin' each other up, yowlin' louder than a whole pack of coyotes in the dead of night. 

Maybe you even heard a few of the stories, too . . . and thinks you knows _all_ about us.

Well that ain't nothin' but a hill of beans. You'll never know what it's like to be a cat herder, not unless you done it yerself. 

And don't let _anybody_ tell you it's easy.

My name's Hank, Hank Cooper that is, and over there a ways is my pal Jake Gallagher. Yeah, the one who looks like he got dragged headfirst through a briar patch. You see, it's hard to find a good scratching post out here on the prairie — cactus don't cut it, and Jake, well Jake just has that kinda face. Irresistible like. Makes him real popular with the herd, that it does. 

But Jake's a good sort, so he only grunts when we pull one of the critters off his face. He even gives 'em a little pat and a cuddle afterwards, as if the frisky thing didn't just try to carve 'im up like a beef brisket. Can't seem to help hisself though — just smiles kinda dopey like, points at the scar on his face and calls it his 'badge of honor'. 

He gets _lots_ of badges.

As for me, I wish I could says it's just a job, but it can't be, not when you're doin' what we're doin'. There's somethin' kinda mystical like, watchin' the herd as they amble along, laughin' at the young-uns as they chase the grasshoppers, makin' sure the young toms don't go _too_ loco once they start throwin' their weight around. 

Sure, most of 'em has a bit of sass, but then, they're cats, ain't they? They're kinda _born_ with sass, and we wouldn't have it any other way. The sass keeps 'em bounding through the heavy snow, keeps 'em swimming 'cross the fords, keeps 'em moving over the endless miles. 

Of course, some of 'em got a little more sass than others. Take that big red tom over there. Jeb Dotson came up with a right fittin' name for 'im, that he did — 'Big Red' he called 'im, and I guess it kinda stuck. 

Well, Big Red has this thing he does. He don't much care to be herded _nowheres_ , so he'll sit real quiet like behind a cactus or such, waitin' for yer horse to go by, then he jumps up just as high as he can and gives 'im a good hard swat on the behind.

Now, most horses don't take too kindly to that, so it usually means a bit of a ruckus — buckin' and snortin' and occasionally grassing2 some catboy who's not payin' attention. But it's all in good fun, at least on Big Red's part. He just trots by with that fluffy tail high in the air like he's done caught hisself a whole passel of rats. 

Nope, it ain't never boring, bein' a cat herder.

Take this drive, for example. Normally, we'd head down Hairball Gulch and cross the river at Calico Ford. Found we couldn't do that this year, seein' as the rains stuck 'round too long. So Nash, that's Nash Collins, the trail boss, tells us the bad medicine3 — we needs to take the herd the long ways 'round . . . through Catnip Flats.

Yep, you heard me. Mighty dangerous thing, tryin' to herd ten thousand shorthairs through Catnip Flats, but we ain't got no choice. Them cats are needed, and needed mighty bad, so we couldn't take the chance of losin' some crossin' the rapids. We needed all of 'em — lock, stock and barrel.

So, Catnip Flats, it is. 

We tried our best, that we did, but as soon as them lead cats done caught a whiff, well, things went all catawampus. 

"Stampede, stampede!" is what I heard comin' from the greenhorn catboys, which I thought kinda stupid, 'cause what in tarnation else would it be? You got thousands of 'nip-crazed cats heading pell-mell for the flats, and all you can do is try to keep 'em from driving one 'nother over the cliff, what with all their half-wild pushin' and shovin'. 

And the hullabaloo they make is mighty loud, too. Stampedin' cats sound kinda like an awful bad storm, what with the thunder of poundin' paws and the snarling and hissing of the half-crazed cats. 

Luckily, we were close 'nough to the flats that the herd reached the 'nip long afore sundown, so we didn't have to wrangle 'em in the dark.

In fact, we just decided to make camp, 'cause there'll be no movin' them cats till they've swilled enough 'nip to make 'em happy. Most of 'em got all four legs in the air, wiggling around on their backs like turtles done flipped over onto their shells.

Some of 'em _keep_ wiggling around, kinda like young Cody over there, who's still green enough to lay his bedroll down next to an anthill. 

"Thought it would make a right good pillow," he'd said, once he was done jumpin' and hollerin' like a half-blind mountain goat who done falled in the hot springs. 

Sakes alive, but I knows he never learnt _that_ darn fool stunt from his great-grandfather. At least Cody's only been that beef-headed _once_ , so there's hope for the tenderfoot yet.

Later that night, as I was headed for the campfire after rollin' up the yarn we'd need to get the cats movin' at the dawn light, I stopped to shake loose a cat-chip stuck to the bottom of my boot. Don't know what it is 'bout these range-fed cats, but they leave behind some _powerful_ vile chips. You know, kinda like that quid of tobacco you've been chawin' all day and just plumb forgot to spit out? 

Anyways, I happened to spy old Ben walking 'long the cliffs. Back and forth, he went, back and forth, muttering to hisself. 

I just shook my head, knowin' there'd be no stoppin' him this night, not as long as the herd lingered so near the cliffs.

My pal Jake came up to me then, his face full of plasters from the day's scratching post duties, and he made like he was gonna amble over there and coax old Ben back to camp. He has a fondness for the old guy, that he does.

I grabbed his arm, shakin' my head. "Leave 'im be, Jake, you'll just be barkin' at a knot,"4 I says, and then I told him why. "Old Ben might _claim_ that he'd never do nothin' else, but he ain't _always_ been a cat herder." 

I led Jake further aways, so old Ben wouldn't hear us. He's still a tad sensitive about it. Gets all pale and such, and seein' as his face is so dark, well now, that's mighty pale indeed.

Bowin' my head in respect, I says real quiet like, "Old Ben used to herd lemmings."

Well, I musta shocked poor Jake, 'cause he gasped mighty loud, yankin' his hat from his head and crossing his heart.

I did the same, sayin', "Ben never brought a single lemming herd into town, not a one, and it scarred him, scarred him right terrible. 'Cause of that, anytimes the herd comes this near the cliffs, he's just gotta do what he's doin'. So, you leaves him be now."  


Jake just nodded. Well then, Jake _never_ says too much, but that might be 'cause his face is always ripped to shreds. Not that I cares, mind ya -- better'n them catpokes who'd talk a donkey's hind leg off if you let 'em. Anyways, Jake just stared long and hard at old Ben, and I could see the tears start fallin' from his eyes.

So, we made our ways back to camp, Jake wipin' at his eyes like he's been walkin' down a canyon in a gully washer, and then he nearly tripped over Big Red, not seein' him. Now, that's a hard thing to do, as Big Red is so darn . . . _big_ , but Jake gone and done it anyways, the clumsy oaf. 

Well, Big Red didn't like that much neither, so he took a swipe at Jake's ankle like he does the horses' butts, but he musta swilled so much 'nip that he was feeling a little loopy. Anyways, when he swiped at Jake, he missed him altogether and fell right on over — face first in the dirt. 

And just stayed there, with his butt stuck up in the air and his tail kinda flopped over to one side like a soggy sombrero.

 _By Gum,_ there's a reason we avoids Catnip Flats. Seein' that many cats actin' like dumb, dopey dogs? Well, it ain't pretty. Ain't pretty at all.

I sighed, hopin' we'd be able to move the herd out in the mornin', and then went to fetch me some vittles. Not surprisingly, it was chili again, but at least Cook makes some right fine chili. I used to think he made it all the time 'cause he was plumb lazy, but as it turns out, he's just got a soft spot for Big Red.

You see, Big Red loves hisself some chili. Can't get 'nough of it. Just sticks his head in a plate of the stuff and don't come up till he's licked it clean.

Tonight, though, Big Red was a little too fuddled. Cook picked the cat up, set 'im back on his haunches and then put a tin can half full of chili in front of 'im. 

Huh. Maybe he _is_ plumb lazy, givin' that poor cat a _can_ instead of goin' to the trouble of washin' a plate for 'im. 

Anyways, the darn fool cat just tipped right on over again and fell headfirst into the can.  


Didn't sound like he was all that riled about it though, 'cause you could hear his rumblin' purr clear 'cross camp. We all just shrugged and went back to our own vittles. 

He was sure to come up for air at some point.

**********************

The next day broke fine and clear, and we rounded up our charges, many of 'em lookin' like they got a bad case of barrel fever.5 It took quite a while to get 'em movin', even draggin' all that string behind the horses. I reckon they'd definitely had enough of that 'nip though, since most of 'em couldn't even tottle in a straight line. 

Serves 'em right, the little 'nip sniffin' gumps. 

It took us almost two days afore we reached the first town — Musquash Mesa. They was mighty glad to see us, that they was, and it was easy to see why. We went to meet the mayor at the outskirts of town, but he was too busy chasin' critters with a broom to even notice we'd arrived at first. 

_Lots_ of critters. Critters everywhere. There was muskrats in the watering troughs, mice on the hitchin' posts, and rats struttin' bold as you please straight down the center of town. Leastways, I'm a guessin' they was rats, seein' as all the young ladies was yellin' and screamin' and puttin' up a right fuss about it. 

A window on the saloon burst out, and one hell-fired big rat flew out along with it, picked hisself up, then stomped back inside, lookin' fit to be tied. The sheriff came out right soon after, runnin' hell bent for leather, with no less than a dozen rodents chasin' after 'im. 

I was a'wonderin' why the sheriff didn't just pull his six-shooter, but then I saws a prairie dog dumpin' a big ole gun in a water barrel, rubbin' his paws together and lookin' mighty satisfied with hisself after he'd done the deed.

Yep, they sure got some bad 'uns here.

Turnin' on his heel, the mayor finally saw us and heaved a huge sigh of relief. When he tipped his hat to us, we could see he had a tiny dormouse there, hangin' on for dear life. 

The mayor kicked a few more of the swarmin' varmints out of the way, lookin' like he'd done got his dander up. He says to us, "How many cats can you spare us this year?" He pointed with his chin to the saloon, where a trio of tipsy rats come stumbling out from under the swingin' doors. They was all screeching to high heaven, that they was, and plumb out of tune to boot.

But at least they seemed to be headin' for the whorehouse, so the godawful noise oughta be fadin' soon.

Well, leastways, _that_ godawful noise. Probably gonna be a lot _more_ noise once they gets inside, comes to think on it.

"As you can see," the mayor says, "we have quite an infestation here."

Nash, our trail boss, said nothin' for a few minutes, merely rubbin' his chin and watchin' as the town seemed to bustle with the pitter-patter of so many tiny little feet. "You got the same troubles in the outlying areas?" Nash asked.

A horse and wagon came flyin' into town just then, loaded down with dry goods and more varmints than you could shake a stick at, their tails and front paws wavin' in the air like they was havin' a good ole time. I saws at least two rats clingin' to the tail of the poor skeerd horse, and he didn't look real happy about _that_ neither.

After the wagon done disappeared at the far end of town, the mayor just nodded his head a few times, causin' the dormouse to squeak in terror as it clawed for a better hold on the man's hat.

"Well," Nash says finally, "I can leave you 'bout a thousand, but the rest we'll need to move along to Rodent Roost and beyond. I hear tell it's even worse up north."

"Oh, thank you!" the mayor exclaimed, yankin' his hat off and swinging it in a wide arc toward his chest. 

The dormouse clung with his front paws as long as he could, then flew cross the ways to land in some lady's hat, which seemed to be more flowers and greenery than hat. I'll never figure out these ladies' fashions, and that's the God's honest truth. Anyways, that little ol' mouse didn't seem to mind none. In fact, looked like he was settlin' in for the long haul.

The lady didn't even notice the new addition to her frippery, runnin' and screamin' as she was already, but then it _was_ a mighty small mouse.

Nash turned in the saddle and whistled sharply.

Our outriders came into view, herdin' the chosen cats into town, but they stopped their horses when the cats finally spotted the critters. Our catboys knew they'd done all they needed to do. The rest was up to the herd, but we knew they'd do us proud.

I sat back in the saddle, smilin' and watchin' the ruckus. The town was soon awash with pouncin' cats and panicked varmints, and Lordy Lordy, was it somethin' to see. Them cats knows their job, that they do, and they went at it hammer and tongs. 

But then, this owdacious sight is what makes it all worthwhile — bringin' a herd into town and letting 'em do what they was born and bred to do. It's 'nough to bring tears to yer eyes.

I was feelin' a _tad_ bit sorry for the varmints though.

Well, _some_ of 'em. Never was all that fond of rats.

Nash tipped his hat to the mayor. "Our job here is done, and we'll be back to pick 'em up in a month."

The mayor nodded, flingin' his hat high in the air, smiling as he sidestepped two stalkin' cats teaming up against one thumping big rat.

I elbowed my buddy Jake, who was pullin' yet another cat off his face, but grinnin' like a madman, too.

You gotta be a special breed to be a cat herder, but we all says the same thing 'bout it.

Well, all but Jake, but he don't never talk much anyways, so I'll just says it for him.

There ain't _no_ place I'd rather be, 'cause I'm livin' a dream.

END

**Author's Note:**

> 1 On the prod - Looking for trouble, spoiling for a fight  
> 2 Grassing - Getting thrown by a horse  
> 3 Bad medicine - bad news  
> 4 Barkin' at a knot - Wasting your time  
> 5 Barrel fever - Hangover
> 
>  
> 
> This story is dedicated to the memory of "Big Red", AKA "Alex", who is pictured here 'home on the range.' May they serve the best darn chili you ever tasted up there in Kitty Cat Heaven. 
> 
>    
> 
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>  
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>   
> 


End file.
